A Certain Sharpness
by hobnailedboots
Summary: Uther tells Arthur that Merlin seems rather pathetic. Arthur's not sure whether or not he agrees. Written for the prompt "bladeplay" for the Merlin comm kinkelot.


**Title: **A Certain Sharpness

**Author: **hobnailedboots

**Characters/Pairings: **arthur/merlin

**For: **The prompt "bladeplay" at the lj comm kinkelot.

**Rating: **nc-17

**Word Count: **~3'200

**Warnings: **threatening, I suppose. Also present tense, and not betaed because I will not have the internet until June due to exams, so I thought I should just thrust this mess upon you. Feel free to concrit, it's much appreciated.

**Summary: **Uther tells Arthur that Merlin seems rather pathetic. Arthur's not sure whether or not he agrees. Oh, and he has a knife. And there are awkward!first-timey!sexual encounters in there too. And the bit with the flames is loosely based off a scene from 'Witch Weekly', by Diana Wynne Jones.

*** * * **

The first time Arthur sees the king this week, it is over a quick meal.

"Arthur," he says, through a mouth of chicken. "Just how is that manservant of yours doing, anyway? He seems rather . . ."

His father is searching for a word to describe him, and Arthur makes a quick list of all the things he has called Merlin so far this week: bumbling, idiotic, moronic, stupid, dim-witted, useless. There's also the daily favourite, clotpole.

For some reason, though, it's different when Uther calls Merlin pathetic.

"Pathetic?" repeats Arthur dumbly.

"Yes," says Uther slowly, looking at the bowl of fruit that is forever between them. "You know. Fumbling. Is he any use? According to Morgana you complain about him constantly. I'm sure someone else . . . perhaps young Galahad, he's always wanted to be a knight, and I owe his father a favour. What do you say?"

Arthur takes time to compose himself, to try and calm the inexplicable rage that is rising within him. He sips from the goblet in front of him, and as he places it back on the table pretends he doesn't notice his hand shaking slightly. He's going to say something logical about Galahad, he tells himself.

"Merlin's not pathetic," he says.

His hand fists in his tunic under the table, and he doesn't know why his breathing is fast and he is angry as hell with his father, doesn't know why he is no longer hungry.

"If you say so," nods his father, raising a brow.

"He's just busy. He has to do work for Gaius and work for me. Besides, there seems to be a magical plot against us almost every week – his is hardly the life of a normal manservant."

"Quite . . . correct."

Suddenly, Uther stands, his jagged-toothed knife clattering to the plate where it reflects the setting summer sun which drifts in from the window.

"If you'll excuse me, Arthur, I'll be seeing to business: the Lower town are complaining about the blacksmith working all hours of the night."

* * *

Maybe Merlin is lightheaded because he has not had dinner, and merely grabbed a few berries with Arthur and the knights when they were riding back from one of the sword practice arenas. Perhaps he is coming down with a cold. Or maybe his pulse is in his head because Arthur's blade is at his throat and things are really where they shouldn't be today.

"'Good evening Merlin, how are you?'" he mocks. "I'm fine thanks Arthur, I completed the million chores you gave me. How are you?"

Merlin laughs nervously as he realises that no, this is not some sort of joke.

"You call me sire."

"If I call you sire will you stop sticking your dagger in my neck?" says Merlin, trying not to swallow.

Merlin's eyes are wider than normal as he drinks in the sight of the prince. Arthur's face is set, and his hand does not waver (thankfully).

"You," Arthur growls, pressing the tip of the blade harder against his throat, at the top of that stupid scarf, "are useless."

"So I've been told," says Merlin's strangled voice. He takes a step backwards, one, two, but Arthur is following and soon he is up against the wall of Arthur's room, his back pressing against the hard stone line of the window. "What have I done this time?"

* * *

The sun is hot. The stone is cold. Arthur's eyes are blue. Merlin wonders why in moments of mortal danger one begins to absorb as much information as possible, useless information. Merlin tries not to count freckles, and settles for observing the line of Arthur's jaw. There's a lot of inbreeding needed to get bone structure like that, he thinks.

* * *

With the blade goes Arthur, who turns to leave. Merlin's neck feels a funny sort of temperature, almost detached. He puts a hand to it as if checking that it is still a part of him.

"Sire." He's still walking. "Arthur."

"_Arthur"_

His footsteps cease but he does not turn, and Merlin is left with the familiar view of the back of Arthur's head. He sees the back of Arthur's head when he rides behind him to another kingdom, when Arthur's in the bath, when Merlin is helping him with his chainmail, and when he's in one of the practice areas, slashing away with his sword.

* * *

Arthur is always hard after sword practice. Merlin doesn't mention it, ever, simply helps him get his armour off, steps away sharpish, and then leaves to "er, tend to the horses" or to "check if you injured Sir Leon". It must be the exercise. Gaius said that when you exercised certain chemicals were released that made exercise seem worth it: Merlin had always really hoped that this was not what Gaius was referring to, but he wouldn't know as he didn't much like physical exertion.

Either his mentor was a pervert, trying to con him into exercising with the promise of arousal, or his master was, getting turned on by thrusting swords at people.

Merlin doesn't like to think about it.

* * *

Except now Merlin is thinking about it, thinking about the hot summer days when he just _knows_ Arthur's too busy to come and look for him so he finds himself an empty changing tent, whispers a couple of words so no one will happen upon him, and, finally, he swallows.

"Arthur," he says, and the tone is no longer pleading. It holds no more fear. Merlin straightens up and takes a step forward.

"I told you to call me sire," mutters Arthur, low.

"Well you weren't responding to that, _sire_, what do you suggest I should have done?"

"You could have, I don't know, left me alone!" Arthur says in frustration, stressing the last three words like they're an order.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Arthur?"

"What the fuck is wrong with _me_? You're the manservant who can't even get me on a horse safely, let alone polish my armour properly. You're the one who doesn't remember how to behave properly around a prince – if anyone should be saying fuck here, it's me. You're the one who my father thinks is useless."

"Well that's a bit rich, coming from him."

"Excuse me?" says Arthur, even though he has heard perfectly well what has been said. Merlin notes that Arthur's knife is still in his hand and feels a knot of terror in his gut.

_Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me_.

Except for they won't. Merlin can heal minor cuts and scrapes, and Gaius' magic is wholly focussed on healing: he can come to very little physical harm. So why is he suddenly scared again? All at once his great plan does not seem so wonderful, and he is standing in a room with an enraged prince. Who is holding a knife.

"I said your father is useless."

"HE LOVES HIS PEOPLE!" bellows Arthur, taking two steps – more like aborted lunges, really – towards him, and Merlin thinks that he could have chosen a better topic of conversation.

"He's taxing them further into poverty in order to wage a war against sorcery, which is impossible to eradicate."

Merlin backs away a little, in the direction of one of the bedposts, and Arthur follows.

"If you say that outside of this room, you're dead. That's treason. You should be dead. I have every right," he breathes, and Merlin is flush against the bedpost, barely feeling all the lumps pressing into his spine, "_every right_, Merlin, to raise this knife to your throat and kill you."

Arthur makes the point by raising his knife in the air and then putting it to Merlin's throat. He fancies he looks a little bit like a madman, and he very well may be one, he thinks. Who else would be as fascinated by the shine of the setting sun on the blade, or by the way the tip makes a dent in Merlin's scrawny neck as though pushing into a pillow? Who else would glare into the wide fearful eyes of a person they had the power to kill and feel a thrill run to their toes? Arthur feels Merlin swallow through the dagger and he is as hard as a rock.

"So is this what this is about then? Your dad thinks I'm useless so you come in to send that message home? There was no need. I already know you think I'm useless. Wasn't it only today that you said that you wished you had a better servant, and that even the stable hand would do a better job than me?" said Merlin, trying to turn the whole thing into a joke again. Hoping that the episode would end with a quick exchange of 'clotpole' from one to the other, and then they could both go to bed.

"Shut up."

"Well you _do_. You just told me I'm useless, and unless I'm very much mistaken the fact that you are threatening me with your dagger – which ironically I polished last night – suggests that you are in some way displeased with me."

"Shut up."

"Arthur, I--"

"Shut _up,_" and the dagger is at the corner of his mouth. His mouth. To Arthur, Merlin's mouth is the overripe berries in the hedgerows outside.

Merlin raises his eyebrows.

"Why so serious, Arthur?" he tries to say, but before he can get past the awkward pucker of the 'why' with a knife dragging back his lips he finds the knife gone, replaced by Arthur. Merlin is not quite sure whether this is supposed to be a kiss or an attack, or maybe both, but if it's the former then Arthur is definitely not very good at it. It's sloppy, there are teeth everywhere, and Arthur's perfect regal nose is mashing up against his.

Still, it's _Arthur_ and he is bending down to put their mouths together – and that's all wrong, because really Merlin is taller and he only gives the impression of being smaller because half the time he's cowering, so Merlin fixes that by straightening up and returning the assault – and Merlin thinks he might be on fire.

* * *

Once, when he was younger, Merlin burned his arm. He didn't run into the village bonfire, or anything stupid like that, he just wanted to know what it felt like. His mother told him he was ordinary, but he knew that Will couldn't make the wise woman (who the parents were giving potatoes to so she educated their children) decide to teach them about fun things, like battles, instead of letters and sums. Normal children saw funny-shaped clouds in the sky; Merlin made them. Merlin knew he had magic, and knew that if anyone found out, ever, he would be burned.

So one day, in his room, he burned his arm. It felt almost pleasant, for a while, but then it was white hot and oh god why did I choose to do this and his fingers were twitching and they wouldn't stop and eventually it was over.

* * *

It felt like burning. Tingles down his limbs focussing into tight heat which bloomed all over his body. It felt like summer was consuming him as it burned out into autumn. He moans and tastes blood on the inside of his cheek. The knife.

He feels no pain: for now, he is immune from the fire, from the consequences, from the sharp point of metal which Arthur has cast onto the bed. He brings his hands to that familiar neck – the bump at the base of the skull which Merlin has felt whilst washing his hair, the hollows behind the ears, and he opens his eyes.

Arthur's eyes are closed, even as his hands find the post above Merlin. Merlin may be wrong – not having had much experience in this department – but Arthur doesn't look as if he is enjoying this. His face is all screwed up like he's found himself in a stable before it's been mucked out. Merlin stops moving his mouth, stops stroking his tongue against Arthur's, and it takes a few seconds for Arthur to realise and stop doing so himself.

"Fuck," says Arthur, opening his eyes and blinking, onetwothree so fast that Merlin is made a little dizzy, then, "Fuck."

Arthur makes to move away, but Merlin's hands slide snake quickly to his shoulders and Merlin says one word.

"Arthur."

"Fuck," says Arthur, but he does not leave, and Merlin knows that he could easily have done so.

Now there is a certain sharpness at his windpipe that is not a blade, and Merlin realises that words are perhaps more dangerous than magic.

Merlin uses no words. He moves a hand to that jaw, one finger on the line of it, and remembers when Arthur decided to grow a beard and Uther put a stop to it immediately. It was the one thing Merlin agreed with Uther about: princes like Arthur should not have bits of scruff attempting to take over their faces. _Apart from when that bit of scruff was named Merlin_, Merlin quickly amended.

Arthur is trembling with some emotion that Merlin can't decipher: "My father--"

Merlin puts a finger to his lips and it is ever-so effective, far better than a knife.

"I may be useless, but sometimes so are you," and Merlin hopes to whatever gods there are that everything will be normal after this, that they will still be Merlin and Arthur and not Sire and Manservant or, gods forbid, Prince Pendragon and Gaius' apprentice. Merlin's hands find the laces to Arthur's trousers, underneath the inches of tunic and chainmail, and work quickly.

"What – what are you doing?" asks Arthur, as though Merlin has just nicked his crown and declared himself the prince of Camelot.

"What does it look like I'm doing, _sire_?"

Arthur's breath is coming hot and fast and he finds it hard to breathe as Merlin's soft, slightly damp palm finds his aching cock.

"Merlin – I"

"Do you want me to stop?" asks Merlin, even though he has no idea what he's doing anyway and doesn't know if it feels good at all. Fingertips skate from shaft to head, skittering like a nervous horse.

Arthur lets out a burst of air and whimpers, once more bracing himself against the bedpost as Merlin strokes, lightly at first and then more confidently, as the fact that Arthur just _agreed_, he _wanted it_, pounds through his mind, heavy and pulsing. He's too busy thinking about the situation he is in – Arthur is at his mercy, Arthur wants him – to pay any attention, and all of a sudden his hand is moving faster and faster around Arthur's cock, and Merlin can see it, see the purple head between them and this is Arthur, vulnerable and_ his_, and he ruts against Arthur, his cock straining at his trousers, desperate for friction.

The little moans Arthur makes as the movement of his hips speeds up are the best thing Merlin has ever heard. The little gasps and 'oh's mix in with Merlin's heavy pants as he thrusts awkwardly into Arthur's thigh, and tangle together as Merlin looks up from Arthur's cock and they are looking at each other and now it is not just coming, not that it ever really was, but it is Merlin and Arthur and Arthur comes first, with Merlin moving desperately against him for a few more thrusts, before sinking into him and holding him.

Merlin takes a while to come down, but when he does he realises that he is holding Arthur in what is a vaguely sticky embrace and that they are slumped at the bottom of the bedpost. He's obviously not recovered his senses enough to be embarrassed though, because instead of blushing and making excuses and leaving like he should be, he licks the come off his fingers and grins apologetically.

Arthur frowns, and shakes his head as though there is water in his ears. He closes his eyes and then, after a second, opens them, as though he expects Merlin to have disappeared.

* * *

No such luck. Merlin is now running the tips of his fingers over the chainmail at his hip.

"I can see why you like metal so much," says Merlin, and for the fifteenth time this hour his breath catches in his throat.

"Pardon?"

"Well, just look at the light on it. Little flashes. Like the lake. Imagine a sword of the lake: it would drip liquid light."

"Merlin, you are certifiably insane." _And did you really taste of the berries you ate when it was hours and worlds ago, or was I making things up?_

"I'm not the one who made a mountain out of a molehill and gets off by putting a blade to someone's throat."

It's at this point that Arthur notices that he's cut Merlin's mouth, just at the corner, and he must have lost all his common sense too because he's licking the little dribble of blood from his chin, and whispering "sorry".

* * *

Merlin knows there is a long way to go. That was as much a 'sorry I nearly cut your face in half' as it was an 'I'm sorry I've let down my father' and 'I'm sorry this will never be open'. But it was an apology, and it's the most he's had from Arthur in a long while.

He takes Arthur's face in his hands and moves their lips together in a kiss that seems as short as it is tender before he stands to leave.

"Gaius – he'll be wondering where I am, I should really --"

"Just tell him that you broke a pitcher of water and had to clean up the mess you made. Your clumsiness is perfectly believable," says Arthur, managing to sound completely superior even though he is the one crumpled on the flagstones looking thoroughly debauched.

"Clotpole," mutters Merlin through a smile as he opens the door to go, thankful for the tunic that covers the evidence of the past minutes. He takes one last glance at the bed, where the dagger lies, now only catching the light of the first stars in the sky.

He's thought it before and he's thought it again – physical pain means little to him. It's the sharpness of Arthur's bones, drawn tight in panic and fear and shame, shadowed into emphasis in the dusk, that hurts him the most.


End file.
